


Whereabouts for Werewolves

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Who Accidentally Love Jane Austen, M/M, Sheriff Stilinski Has No Idea How To Cope With His Son Sometimes, Slow Build, There's Just A Little Bit Okay, This Is Actually Just Me Being Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek glares at him, growling, an inch from his face and he seems to be waiting for Stiles to break the silence.  So he squeaks, “I brought pie.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Petrichor And Other Manly Smells

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write something terribly long and terribly sad and terribly full of allusions that may or may not be caught by the general populace.

Stiles doesn’t realize it at first.  It actually takes him a really long time, you know, considering it’s sort of supposed to be his thing to get the things people miss (like how smart Lydia is or how Isaac sometimes needs hugs on days when he comes to school a little more jumpy than usual).  He’s well into their senior year before he notices it.  (“It” being Derek and a condition he calls “this guy is actually really lonely”-itis.)  It should have been obvious but he doesn’t have time to really sit down and think about it until after everything settles down.  Until after the Alpha pack is taken care of, until after everything with Peter is taken care of (a steady process of learning to trust the older man and the older man learning to be worthy of trust once more) and Lydia is kind of figured out (she’s not quite were, but she’s not quite human, either; she’s got the benefits of heightened senses but she’s not as indestructible—though who is he kidding? She’s _always_ pretty invincible—and she’s got a terrible new appetite for barely-cooked meat).  It takes him a while to get over her, Lydia.  But he does—he comes to terms with the fact that his infatuation with her is fruitless.  It helps that his budding feelings for Derek and the questions about his own sexuality start taking precedent after the Jackson-incident.  (He would quote Austen here about the nature of love, and a good distraction to help the pangs of an injured heart, but that would mean proving he’d actually done the reading, and if he were to do that, people might start expecting more from him.  And fuck that.  He’s got enough on his plate without adding to his load at school.)

Anyway, the point is that he doesn’t really _get it_ about Derek until one night—another renovation night, not actually _mandatory_ but the implication was that anyone who doesn’t show will get their guts ripped out and feasted upon—and everyone’s sitting around a dusty hardwood floor, cross-legged and dirty and _destroying_ the pizzas they’d all chipped in for (except Peter and Lydia and Jackson, who all seem to think that the floor isn’t good enough to be graced by their asses and who are crammed onto Derek’s decrepit couch).  Everyone’s talking and laughing and then there’s Derek, who’s barely touched his first slice—not that Stiles is keeping track—and just looking around at the walls.  They’d knocked them down, built new ones.  Like Habitat for Humanity except… Whereabouts for Werewolves (okay, that’s lame) or Lodgings for Loups-Garoux (which, really, is even more lame and when, at the first Committee To Renovate The Old Hale House So They Didn’t Have To Keep Breathing Dust And Ash And Possibly Dangerous Mold, he brought these possible new names up for the project—because they were much less ridiculously long—he received nothing but stares of varying degrees of “Stiles, you’re a moron”).  Apparently, a handful of teenagers and a smattering of adults—including, wonder of wonders, Sheriff Stilinski and Chris Argent which was just _bizarre_ but they only helped a couple days a month because they are grownups with _jobs_ —actually _can_ build a house.  Especially if most of those teens are imbued with supernatural abilities.  _Any_ way, that night it’s just pack and it seems really fun except Derek is making that face, that could-be-constipated-but-probably-means-he’s-having-feelings-he-can’t-deal-with and he looks so _alone_ with all these happy faces all around him.

It’s disconcerting for some reason.  It’s not like Derek’s ever been a _happy guy_ with them but suddenly something about that face makes Stiles feels very cold because there’s something kinda familiar about that look.  It’s not until sometime around two AM that he realizes it’s because Derek’s _lonely_ and he’s still in so much _pain_ and it gives Stiles all these _feelings_ not just because he’s the Alpha or because he’s kinda like a friend.  Stiles wants to make him feel better.  He doesn’t know what he wants.  Maybe to make him smile, maybe just to alleviate some of that pain.  Because, whether or not the guy wants to admit it, he needs that, needs to know he’s not alone and he doesn’t have to be alone all the damn time.  (There’s a ridiculous moment at about two forty-three AM when he’s just _mad_ that Derek still cuts himself off from them.)

And that’s when he makes Stupid Decision Number One.  (It’s actually probably like Stupid Decision Number Four-Million-One-Thousand-And-Sixty-Two; Stupid Decision Number One was probably sticking with Scott after he got bitten but for the sake of all this he’s gonna call it Stupid Decision Number One.)  At two forty-six AM, Stiles pulls on a pair of clean jeans, sneaks downstairs, snatches the last quarter of (homemade) apple pie out of the fridge, and opts to hike to the skeletal Hale House because, really, as lovely as his Jeep is, it’s more likely than not to wake his dad.  He makes it to the mouth of the dirt road that leads down to Derek’s before catching the glint of bright red eyes in the wan moonlight.  It’s really only because he sees that that he manages to brace himself enough not to squawk when he’s slammed into a tree.

Derek glares at him, growling, an inch from his face and he seems to be waiting for Stiles to break the silence.  So he squeaks, “I brought pie.”

The growling stops with a little grunt, like a question.  “Do you know how _fucking stupid_ it is to be wandering around in the middle of the night?” the werewolf demands.

“No, no, see I-I-I wasn’t wandering, not one bit.  I knew exactly where I was going, I was coming here because, really, there’s nothing than cold apple pie to induce bondy-friendly hormones and I thought maybe if you were maybe the kind of guy who might have like feelings and wanna talk about feelings and stuff then maybe I could be the kind of guy who might be good at like listening to feelings and stuff.  Also!  Oh, man, also, Stilinski hugs, man, I could just hug you that’d be cool too, like bro-hugs.  Totally doesn’t have to be weird in the same way that it’s not weird _at all_ for you to throw me into shit, like I totally think that this could become a thing, a different kind of thing, a very bro-like-pack-ish-not-gay-at-all thing if maybe you needed that sort of thing?”  At the end of this, Stiles is gasping for breath and just sort of slumps because suddenly he’s tired like, oh, like he’s worked his ass off helping rebuild a house and then spent most of the night trying to figure out Derek Hale and then part of it walking like a mile.  Yeah, that kind of tired.

Stiles has no clue how long they stand like that after.  Eventually, though, Derek pushes off of him, way out of his personal space—which is new—and jerks his head in the general direction of the house.  Stiles isn’t sure if he imagines the hard, “C’mon,” or if it’s actually grunted at him, but the Alpha stomps off and he follows because he’s a tool and will follow Derek pretty much anywhere.

They sit across from one another in what’s gonna be a narrow hallway when it’s all built, backs against supporting beams, legs out forward so that they’re pressed together on one side, Derek’s left to Stiles’, foot-to-hip.  The teen lets the other eat most of the pie but stabs a fork into it every so often.  For a long time, Stiles talks.  He tells Derek things he already knows about the pack because those are the only people he ever hangs out with.  He tells him about school.  (Derek stares at him, not with that pinched-up scowl of his but with this blank sort of look and he doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t growl at him to shut up so he keeps going.)  He talks about reading _Pride and Prejudice_ for English—he admits to reading _Northanger Abbey_ and _Persuasion_ for pleasure.

When he takes a pause to breathe, Derek mumbles, “Laura always liked that stuff—Austen.”

Stiles gapes for a moment, ducks his head to hide a grin at being allowed to hear that.  “Did you?” he finally asks, feigning a casual tone even if he knows he’s transparent.  “I mean—did you ever read any of her work?”

“‘I cannot speak well enough to be unintelligible,’” the other replies in half-whisper and it takes Stiles a beat too long to realize he’s _actually referencing_ Northanger Abbey.  That _Derek Hale_ just _quoted Jane Austen at him._   And then he realizes he’d very much like to kiss him for it.  He must be gaping, because Derek’s shoulders are shaking a little like he’s laughing silently.  Then, his eyes look very sad and very far-away.  “She made me read all those books she used to love,” he mumbles gruffly.  “After—after the fire, we took turns reading out loud.”  He rolls his eyes and looks away.  “Her favorite character was always Catherine Morland—‘Poor, sweet, _good_ Catherine, _stupid_ Catherine who caught the eye and heart lovely Mr. Tilney,’” he breathes, shuffling his right foot.

“And did _you_ have a favorite?” Stiles asks, voice rough because it’s like Derek’s grief is bleeding into him.

For a moment, he’s scared he won’t get an answer, but then the werewolf’s eyes are on him and he hears, “Fanny Price, from _Mansfield Park._ ”  He doesn’t elaborate and Stiles doesn’t ask, just bumps him a little with his foot and half-smiles at him.

They talk about stupid shit—with small, almost-terrifying detours about the Hales that Stiles treats with kid-gloves because he’s terrified Derek’s gonna freeze up on him—until the sun rises over the trees and turns everything kinda orange-gold and makes Derek’s eyes glint and it’s kinda beautiful and also kinda cold.  That’s like _the exact moment_ when the teenager realizes—“Shit, I’ve got school.”  The other smirks a little at the outburst and starts to stand.  He reaches out and Stiles takes the proffered hand, rises slowly like an old man.  A shiver runs through him quickly and Derek’s warmth enveloping his fingers is pleasant.  He lets go, though, and Stiles yawns and stretches his arms above his head and his back pops all the way up and it’s _great_ but he is exhausted.  “No—school—can’t,” he groans, head lolling to one side.

“C’mon, drama queen,” Derek rumbles and when he peeks his eyes open he sees his lips twitch a little.  “I’ll drive you.  We’ll get coffee.”

Stiles hums approvingly and yawns again, big and wide and ending with chattering teeth.  Something heavy and warm lands on his shoulders and it smells like petrichor (thanks, Doctor Who, for that word, it’s such a good word and he never gets to use it and really who uses a word like that anyway but suddenly it’s perfect and he almost believes in fate) and a little like sweat, it smells like earth and trees and _man_ and Stiles isn’t sure what that means but it’s a Good Thing.  Opening his eyes, he casts a furtive glance at the werewolf before slotting his arms into the sleeves and murmuring some thanks before following him out.  He hears Derek grunt something about not wanting to hear his fucking wailing about being cold.

As soon as he collapses in the Camaro, his eyelids start drooping.  He doesn’t remember the ride, just flopping in.  Seconds later, or something like that, Derek’s voice cuts in his dreams, “Hey, idiot.”  It’s curt and the hand that nudges Stiles’ head his hard but he’s not _glaring_ so he’s not too beat up about it.  He wakes up with his backpack between his knees, which is weird, and there is very quickly a cup of coffee under his nose.  Sniffing and rubbing his eyes vigorously, he slurs something questioning and not really any language _at all_ but Derek seems to understand.  “I know I’ve been out of high school a while but I’m _pretty sure_ you guys still need those,” he mumbles, gesturing at the bag.  “And I promised you coffee.”  He doesn’t give Stiles a helluva lot of time to question him further before leaning across him and shoving the door open and the teen can really only grunt something vaguely in protest before he’s being pushed out onto pavement that feels weirdly solid and simultaneously insubstantial underneath his feet.

Swaying, he turns just in time to catch the bag hurled at his chest.  He shakes his head, like a dog (ha) shaking water from his ears, and takes a long drink from the cup in his hand and feels maybe a little more alive.  “Thanks,” he huffs, tossing his book bag over his shoulder and then shoving a hand into a pocket.  He walks around the front of the car to head up to the school and hears Derek’s window roll down behind him.

“Hey,” the Alpha says.  “If you get anything on my jacket, I’ll rip your throat out.”

“Yeah, yeah, with your teeth,” Stiles laughs, grinning.  He thinks he sees Derek flash him a quick smile but it could have just as easily been a quick glimpse of fangs—a threat.


	2. Possessive Pronouns and Apple Pies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually just about Stiles and his stupid crush and the pack and their stupid noses and Derek not being demanding and pushy for once and a leather jacket caught in the mix.
> 
> It is also about how Sheriff Stilinski appears to have given up on his son. This is not reality, he's just no good at dealing with his son practically telling him he wants to touch Derek Hale at five AM.

“Dude.”  Scott is staring at him like he does when he misses something totally obvious and pack-related.  He hates getting that look from Scott.  Scott is a baby and a puppy and needs to be coddled and reminded not to do things like stick his hand on the hot stove.  So the fact that he ever misses something that’s obvious to Scott is insulting and wrong on like all of the levels.  “What the hell are you wearing?”

Stiles blinks slowly at him and then looked down.  “Sneakers.  Uh, presumably socks, because people who don’t wear socks are gross and we both know that I am a different brand of nasty.  Jeans.  I’m pretty sure they were clean when I put them on last night,” he deadpans.  He makes a show of wiggling his hips and ignores the fact that Isaac, Erica, Boyd, and Lydia are now clustered around him too.  “Yeah, and boxers.  Freakin’ awesome Captain America T-shirt.  Jacket.”

In a show of annoyance that is not unlike their Alpha, Lydia whacks the back of his head.  “Yeah, why are you wearing _that jacket_ , moron?” she demands, looking at him with a weird hybrid I-will-eat-you-for-breakfast and you-are-seriously-the-most-ridiculous-thing bitch-face.

Sighing heavily through his nose, Stiles drains the last of his coffee—mourning the loss as anyone in his situation ought—and replies, “Uh, because I got cold?”  She growls and he rolls his eyes.  “Look, he let me borrow it, no big deal.”

“You are a huge dumbass because you actually believe that it’s no big deal,” Erica says bluntly.

Isaac pipes, “It’s like… _a major huge deal,_ okay?  I’ve had bones broken because I almost spilled something on this jacket.  And you are _so_ not capable of keeping it clean and I just know you’re gonna trip and fall and rip it ‘cause that’s what you _do._ ”

The human stares at him for a long time before, “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy.”  He looks around again with brows raised.

“That’s not even the least of it, Isaac just remembers that bit because… well, because Derek broke his arms— _anyway_ , the big deal is that you smell like Derek and you smell like _you_ which is always just a big gross mess of hormones and stuff,” Scott explains, looking disgusted.

Now everyone’s staring at Scott, at least.  Lydia rolls her eyes (at this point surely thinking something about how Peter could have really made better choices because really who _didn’t_ have that thought when Scott opened his mouth?) and clears her throat.  “The _point_ is that you smell like Mate Stew and it’s revolting.  You should really have more compassion.”

“Wow,” Stiles says.  “Okay, alright, well, you guys are so tactful.  I mean, like, you really know how to make a guy feel comfortable in his own skin.  So I’m just gonna _go._ ”

And after that he’s really not confronted with the issue again until Chem when Danny drops into Scott’s usual place.  “McCall asked me to trade,” he mumbles apologetically.  Stiles turns back and sees his nominal best friend whispering with Jackson and he scowls at the betrayal.  He hunches further into the jacket a little vindictively.  It’s not even that apparently he reeks to the others—like, whatever, Lydia makes some comment about how he smells like blue balls at least once a week these days—it’s that Scott’s being such an incredible _ass_ about it and it’s just throwing his unrequited affection right back in his face.  Because he _knows_ Derek just gave him the stupid jacket because he was cold.  He’d certainly _like_ it to be something else, but it’s not.  So the fact that even his _best fucking bro_ is pushing that right back under his nose is a _major fucking annoyance_ in his life right now.  So he feels totally justified when Scott texts him later in ignoring him, totally justified in just sitting with Danny and talking about lacrosse and English assignments and which search engines to use.  (He dozes off at one point—right in the middle of a sentence—and Danny gives him this little look, like he _knows_ , but then Stiles just lets his head drop onto the desk with a defeated groan.)

It’s just ridiculous because all he wanted was to let Derek know he had a friend out there and he knew, he just _knew_ , that this little _thing_ the pack was on was gonna get back to the Alpha and then what?  And then _awkward_ , that’s what.  So he spends the better part of the day trying to decide just how much he’s willing to let awkwardness interfere with being a good friend/packmate/beta/punchingbag.  He’s actually still working on this problem as he’s walking out of the school to the parking lot when he realizes that unless Derek’s gone all Edward Cullen on him—which is completely within his skillset—his Jeep will not be waiting for him.

The thing about it is that Derek is _actually there_ looking like sex in jeans and a T-shirt and all that stubble and stupid hair and that is about twelve times worse than him having left his Jeep.  Because he’s leaning against the Camaro with his arms crossed and his legs crossed and he’s got those ridiculous thighs and Stiles’ life is just _not fair._   Wetting his lips, Stiles edges over.  “Come back for your clothes?” he tries to tease.  It falls a little flat.  He’s had a bad day; these things are allowed to happen.

“Tired?” Derek asks, cocking a brow.  “Get in, I’m taking you home.”  His eyes flicker over Stiles’ shoulder and he knows without turning that the rest of the pack is back there somewhere, watching and listening.  “Something wrong?”  If he didn’t know better, he’d say Derek was concerned.  (He’s actually sure that the Alpha would never ask if he didn’t want to know and, in many cases, if he didn’t already know the answer.)

Instead of replying, Stiles huffs and clambers into the Camaro because he’s bone-tired and he doesn’t feel like talking about this (because he will _never feel like talking about his awkward crush on Derek Hale thanks so very much_ ).  He turns so he’s slightly curled in the passenger seat and the leather jacket creaks but he’s fighting to stay awake.  When they get on the road, he sighs, “I had fun last night.”  He watches Derek roll his eyes and blinks slowly, the urge to fall asleep strong.  “No, really.  Like, it’s nice to just chill.  I never just chill anymore because Scott’s always pining over Allison or making out with Allison or _talking about her_ or there’s something made out of insanity that wants all or most of us dead on our asses or somebody’s dying or whatever so… I dunno, sometimes it’s just nice to hang out.”  The flow of words is slower than usual.  It’s no less compulsive, it just drips out of him like cold honey instead of spews out.

Derek’s silent for the rest of the ride but now that Stiles is in a somewhat-reclined position and is melting into the leather swallowing him he’s having a hard time really giving a damn.  It’s not until he pulls into the driveway that the Alpha speaks.  “You know,” he pauses, glowering ahead at the Jeep.  “You can come over whenever you want, if you want, whatever just… don’t walk.  In the middle of the night.”  His voice is strained like talking is giving him physical pain.  (It doesn’t matter because what Stiles hears is closer to, _“Stiles, you’re a great guy and I’d love to have you over for more bro-tastic bonding sessions so I stop being such a stick in the mud with a whole lotta practice.”_ )

As soon as his head it’s the pillow, Stiles is _out_.  As in _doesn’t even dream_ , out.  He wakes up at some unholy hour, refreshed and thrumming with something like nervous energy.  Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, he clambers out of bed with the vague idea of homework.  He sits at his desk until he’s finished a paper on Jane Austen’s purpose behind _Pride and Prejudice_ that isn’t due for two weeks—sources cited properly, thank you very much, _including_ a Tweet, which was his goal for this year, using a Tweet in a paper—and another for Econ (on an actually relevant topic, who’da thunk it?).  By then, he can hear his dad getting ready for work.  He could hear him stomping down the stairs and, after a few minutes, followed him.

“Morning!” he cries cheerily at his dad’s back.

“Stiles,” the man grumbles.  “Where’s that pie?”

“Dad, I’d like to thank you for destroying all of my hopes for college because clearly I’m never going to be able to leave you here alone if the first thing you go for in the morning is pie, I mean really,” he responds, frowning.  “I guess I’ll have to work at the video store for the rest of my life.  Not that it’ll be very long, considering the track record.  They go through employees like Hogwarts goes through Defense Against the Dark Arts professors.  So I’ve got that going for me.  And I will haunt you every day of your life to remind you to eat your vegetables and make sure you stay away from curly fries and fried chicken so you’ve got that going for you!”

“Son, what happened to the pie?” his father asks, shaking his head.

“Well, I may or may not have fed it to Derek Hale,” Stiles says in a rush.  “I mean, I didn’t _feed it to him_ because that would be weird and we’ve established that I don’t dress well enough to be gay and even if I were I could never get a guy like him because have you _seen_ him?  His body defies laws.  I’m not sure which laws, but they defy common decency and that’s enough for me.  But like he looked down so I left—I didn’t sneak out because I made it in by curfew that night if you’ll remember and you’re rules leave a lot of room open for interpretation, like I gotta be in by eleven but it doesn’t say when curfew is lifted so I was well within my rights to leave at three in the morning and anyway I brought him the pie so he wouldn’t slash my throat and use me as a virgin sacrifice for sneaking up on him all uninvited and stuff and then he ate it and we talked about books and stuff.”

The sheriff gapes at him for a long moment.  “Are you telling me that you fed my pie to Derek?  Is that what I was supposed to glean from that?”

“Glean, whoa, not a lot of detective work involved I mean it was practically my thesis,” he scoffs.  “And besides how is it _your_ pie?  I made it.  I spent _hours_ on that crust, Dad.  That was _my_ pie that _I_ made that _I_ can share with my sorta-friends when they look bummed that most of their family died horribly before that person and slash or mythical creature-y humanoid _thing_ made it to thirty any time I want to.”

“ _Your_ pie that _I_ bought all the ingredients for,” the man grumbles.

Stiles looks ready to argue with that but immediately snaps his lips shut.  “How long am I grounded for?”

“What does it matter?  Just… go upstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll get to the bromance and the straight-up romance and boykisses in the next chapter I just needed some ridiculous.


	3. Laugh Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is still very much a teenager.

Derek doesn’t come back for his jacket but Stiles doesn’t wear it to school again— _not_ out of compassion for his stupid friends’ stupid noses but because he does not need a repeat of _that day_ , thanks so much—just leaves it on the back of his desk chair (and, if in the odd hours of the night when his curtains are shut tight and his window’s locked, he sleeps with his nose buried against the collar, well… no one has to know).  (Except everyone knows because everyone who knows has those stupid noses and he knows they know because of their stupid noses but apparently they’ve decided not to comment on it.)  In fact, the jacket doesn’t leave his room until Saturday, which is the next big pack meet—held in a creepy abandoned warehouse, _cool_ —because he realizes that it would probably be odd to “forget” something like Derek leather-jackets-are-sort-of-my-thing-because-I-am-actually-a-walking-cliché Hale’s leather jacket would open up a really gross can of worms that he doesn’t need right now.  So, he holds it in his lap and the industrial-sized pot of chili sits buckled in the seat next to him and he goes out for the meet and only dreads it like a lot.

When he gets there, he throws the jacket over his shoulder so he can manhandle the chili into the wolf’s den without making two trips.  He’s unlucky enough that everyone’s there before him.  It kind of makes him want to throw up.  There’s a beat before he grins, crying, “No!  Your noses do _not_ deceive you, this _is_ the Stilinski Secret Chili!”

Lydia cocks her head to the side, takes a deep breath, and says, “The secret is Cholula, caramelized onions, a splash of Budweiser, and… cinnamon.”

Pursing his lips, he levels his best glare at her.  “Boy, you must be fun at parties.”

She gives him her most affected look of innocence.  “Honey, you know I am!”

Derek growls and Stiles’ response dies in his throat.  The Alpha doesn’t even address the jacket, even seemingly ignoring it at one point, so as everyone grabs some food Stiles finds himself sitting with the thing in his lap.  He does a lot less talking tonight—read as:  he actually remains pretty silent, so deep in his own twisting, convoluted though process that he can barely spare anything for speech _and_ listening and for now he’d rather just listen—and his fingers trace the folds of the leather underneath them absently.  Mostly he just waits, though.  Waits for everyone to get done chatting and leave.  Waits for Allison to finish taking down a message for her father.  His wandering mind makes it relatively easy to ignore Jackson’s derisive snort on his way out or Scott’s glance.  And then it’s just him and Derek and he shakes his head slowly as if to clear away the thoughts had been crowding him up all night.

Clutching the jacket, he sidles over to Derek where he’s leaning near the door.  He slumps clumsily against the wall and bumps his shoulder a little.  They’re quiet and not looking at each other and Stiles looks off in another direction when Derek takes the jacket but feels him next to him sliding it on.  It’s not as comfortable—them together like this—as it probably could be.  It’s just _this side_ of uncomfortable, really.  Uncomfortable enough to make it a little awkward.  And a little awkward always begs to be filled with words.  So Stiles talks about inane shit like his English paper and getting to cite a Tweet and at first he knows Derek doesn’t understand but then he does and he looks over in time to see the man’s face go from dark and stiff to _actual laughter_ , to see how his lips slide back off his teeth and the corners of his eyes crinkle and his laughter comes up from somewhere deep in his chest and Stiles knows that Derek is laughing _at_ him and not _with_ him but he doesn’t mind because Derek is really kind of gorgeous when he laughs.  He likes knowing now where his laugh lines etch into his face and how his nose scrunches just a little and it feels private in a way it has no right to just because it is so rare.

The thing about Stiles is that half the time—more than half the time—he doesn’t take time to process what he’s about to do, just flings himself into it which is how he ends up in most of the compromising situations he’s found himself in.  There are, of course, those unavoidable instances where he’s kidnapped, or where someone is actively hunting him, or where he actually _thinks_ about things but he realizes that he’d rather die trying to help his friend than walk away and leave them to die alone.

In this case, he didn’t really think about it.

He doesn’t even realize what’s happening.

One moment, he’s thinking how nice it would be to press his lips to the corner of Derek’s mouth where there’s teeth and lips and stubble and the most perfect laugh line he’s ever seen.  The next, he’s actually _doing that_ and it’s nice, really nice, but also awkward because Derek stills and the part of his brain that handles understanding and personal boundaries catches up with him and he is _kissing Derek Hale_ and it makes him backpedal violently.  He gasps a noise not unlike a dying whale and covers his mouth and Derek’s giving him Inscrutable Look Number Four so he apologizes or he thinks he apologizes and then he grabs his dishes and _sprints_ out and rationalizes that if the Alpha wants to catch him he _can_ but since he doesn’t he must not mind that he’s leaving.  He tries to convince himself that that doesn’t hurt.  A fucking lot.

He comes home to an empty house and he’s glad because he can make all the noise he wants cleaning stuff and putting shit away and be mad at himself for being an idiot and then shower and just hide under the stream of water until it’s too cold to stand and then just lie in his bed and be miserable and predictable about this whole thing.  Because this isn’t a Derek-thing this is a Stiles-is-a-fucking-dumb-teenager-who-cannot-get-his-shit-together-thing so he’s gonna sulk naked in bed and make himself relive the most mortifying moment _ever_ because that’s just what dumb teenagers who have just ruined their lives _do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND APPARENTLY THIS IS THE SECTION WHERE DIALOGUE IS NO LONGER A THING.  
> Except that little bit, which hardly seems to count.  
> JUST A LOTTA INTROSPECTION.  
> Ugh I bet when I said "boykisses" y'all thought it was gonna be good.  
> I'm being completely honest when I say I have no idea what I'm writing I'm just sorta going with the flow and words come out and I get a nice little surprise and then I write the next section when that feels right.  
> THIS IS A PROBLEM.  
> THERE IS NO FORWARD-THINKING INVOLVED  
> I NEED MORE COFFEE


	4. I'm A Doctor, Not An Escalator!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Papa Stilinski tries to help and Stiles might be unresponsive.

Sunday, he just lets the phone ring.  McCoy from Star Trek goes on hour-long diatribes about how he’s a _doctor_ , not meant to perform various other jobs that one can assume are employable positions upon the Starship Enterprise.  Except the one where he’s claiming not to be an escalator.  That… he’s pretty sure that’s not a job.  By the time his father comes home, he’s made it into a pair of boxers but has so far refused to extend into further clothed territory.  He’s not… _depressed_ necessarily.  After hours of contemplation, he’s come to recognize and accept this feeling as complete and utter humiliation.  (This of course being a logical and reasonable emotion for him to feel after what occurred the night before, it would be equally logical and reasonable for him to be able to move on from such embarrassment—a small voice reminds him that Erica seemed to have been perfectly capable—but he is _not_ , no matter what is implied by the diction of this thought process, Mr. Spock and thus cannot separate himself from his emotions quite so easily.)  He mashes his face into his pillow to stifle a sickened groan because _really? really he just_ had _to kiss Derek?_

Sometime in the afternoon, his dad knocks almost hesitantly on the door and lets himself in.  He’s gonna say something, Stiles can feel it, knows his dad’s mouth is open to ask if he’s okay or something like that but then his phone goes off again and instead he hears, “Aren’t you going to pick that up?”

In a great feat of strength, the seventeen-year-old flips over onto his back, arms flopping out to his sides.  “No,” he croaks.  He answers him before he manages to ask, “’Cause reasons, Dad.  Tired.  Don’t wanna talk to them.”

Looking back, he’ll come to realize why that wasn’t as reassuring to his father as he had thought at that moment.  As it is, this is the present, not the future, and he realizes nothing of the sort, except that his father is now sliding his desk chair to the bed and sitting down.  “What’s wrong, son?”

Stiles’ eyes slide to his and they hold that contact for a while before he relents and sits up, dragging a pillow to his chest and slouching into it.  “You know when… like, you would tell me that one day my mouth was gonna get me into trouble?” he pauses like the sheriff’s supposed to respond but then carries on either way, “I’d just always assumed that it would have been like… ‘cause I said something stupid, not… what actually happened.  Which was just _so_ dumb I can’t even stop thinking about it and all my friends are just gonna tell me what I already know and I’d rather just not deal with that now and wallow.”  It’s supposed to be a joke.  He tacks on a lifeless little laugh at the end and shakes his head, rubs his eyes and slouches a little more.

“Did you throw yourself at Lydia, Stiles?  Is Jackson going to tear you limb from limb once you get to school on Monday?” the man asks, sounding even more worn down than his son.  He also sounds a lot like he doesn’t think this is what’s happened at all.  So the teen just shakes his head slowly.  “Then is this about Derek Hale?”

“Got it on the second try, Dad, you should be a cop or something,” he mumbles, trying a smile.  And then, he’s not really sure how it happened, he’s telling his father _everything_ , from the stupid way Derek takes care of everyone to that thing he does with his nose when he smells something unfamiliar.  And that face, the kind-of-sad-and-kind-of-empty look he’d had when he looked at him not so long ago and the way he just wanted to help the guy out and how he’d had the biggest crush on the dude since he met him even though he was kinda scary and how saving each other’s lives was like a weird pastime for them by now.  He talks about the jacket because he could write sonnets about the jacket.  He whines about Austen.  He tells his dad about last night, about seeing Derek smile and thinking that kissing him would be really great but he also _knew_ that there was _no way in hell_ that kissing him would be a good idea but his body just sort of defied reason.  He goes very quiet when he talks about how Derek froze up and about how he just ran off.  “I like my liver where it is, thanks,” he jokes lamely.

“This may be a really old-fashioned concept, but have you considered _talking_ to him about this?” his dad asks after an agonizing moment.

Stiles gapes at him for a moment before, “Uh, yeah, except I am not Mr. Darcy and Derek is not Eliza Bennet and what am I even supposed to say, ‘Hey, dude, sorry for creepy-kissing your smile, I couldn’t help myself?’”

“Genim,” his father growls warningly (somehow, even without freaky werewolf powers, his growl tends to strike fear into Stiles’ heart).  “I would suggest trying something a little bit subtler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the thing: I keep thinking, _Hey! This chapter's gonna have some serious sloppy makeouts!_ and then feels.  
>  So, if y'all are still with me...  
> Just.  
> It's coming.


	5. In Vain Have I Struggled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is kind of a crappy friend for a day but he's terrified of Lydia so who can blame him?

Thing is—subtle isn’t Stiles’ strong suit.

In fact, he doesn’t really _own_ that suit.

He wouldn’t even know where to rent that suit.

He—okay, this metaphor is dead.

But, the other thing is, just because _subtlety_ isn’t his thing doesn’t mean that he’s gonna go singing old hits while dancing down bleachers being chased by overweight rent-a-cops.  (Somehow he doesn’t think that that’s the plural of rent-a-cop but it’s the best he’s got.)  So the trick is to find an acceptable middle-ground between the two.

The problem with that is that he’s got less than twenty-four hours before he’s got to face the pack again and suddenly he’s lost all ability to function under pressure.  And then even when he’s _got_ a plan (which involves sort of winging it and apologizing at some point) he’s not sure he’s ready to see the looks on the faces of those he’s ignored for over a day.  There’s a crazy half-minute when he begs his dad to just let him stay home sick but he just gets a _look_ and he’s pretty sure his father is telepathic because he swears he hears, _Are you fucking kidding me, Stiles?_ in his head so he doesn’t even wait for a verbal answer.  Because honestly he doesn’t want to hear the you’ve-got-to-face-them-sometime-or-another talk.  He slinks back up to his room to check his messages.

Over a hundred texts (oh my _God_ ), a ridiculous amount of calls that gives him a pang of second-hand embarrassment for those who called him so often (because he knows they knew he was _fine_ just _hiding_ for God’s sake they’re not _all_ stupid), and upwards of forty voicemails.  He deletes the texts because no.  Just… no.  He will not.  There’s a handful from Lydia and she’s the only one who uses anything that resembles English in a way that he can read without getting a headache and Scott sent the bulk of them and he knows Scott’s already sub-par skills decline _rapidly_ when he’s particularly distressed, and he refuses to indulge any of the others.  He skips right to the voicemails.

_“What_ do you think you are doing, Stilinski, I—” Jackson.  Delete.

“Stiles, sweetie, could you please call me and explain why—” Lydia.  Delete.

“Dude, what the _fuck_ are you—” Scott.  Delete.

The next three are from Scott, actually.  Then two from Allison.  Six more from Scott.  The four after that are split evenly between Erica and Isaac.  There’s another two from Lydia, one more from Jackson, and another from Allison with Scott in the background.  Three more from Isaac, then there are another two from Erica.  Stiles loses count after that and just clears out his whole inbox because it’s just too much.  They don’t sound angry as much as distressed and he wonders if Derek told them.  “No,” he mumbles to himself.  “He wouldn’t.”  But he’s not entirely sure and he really, _really_ just wants to crawl under his bed until the big bad wolf pack finds new prey.

When he gets to school Monday morning, he half-expects the pack to be waiting for him.  They’re not, and he’s pretty sure he smells Lydia’s influence in all that.  She would lull him into a false sense of security and then pounce.  She likes to play with her food like that.  Jumpy and sure that there’s really no way he can avoid the notice of the others for long (if at all, and let’s be realistic here), he searches for an ally.  His gaze fell first upon Scott.  Sweet, pliable Scott.  He rushes him, grabs his arm.  “You have to make sure the rest of them don’t eat me before I get to talk to—to someone,” he blurts.

“Um, what?  Dude—where the hell have you been—”

“Shut up, you know exactly where I’ve been with your creepy super-stalker powers and I can feel it in my _bones_ that Lydia’s got something planned and you’ve got to _keep them away from me_ ,” he gasps, practically shaking his best friend.

Scott’s giving him this look, sad-puppy-that’s-had-it’s-toy-taken-away fused with something like fear, and says, “I dunno…”

Stiles gets _way_ into his personal space and hisses, _“Scott McCall I swear to whatever god is listening, I swear on your ridiculous fucking misaligned face, if you do not do this for me I will tell the entire school what_ really _happened in seventh grade with Greenberg during Seven Minutes in Heaven.”_

He feels like a shitty friend for pulling that card out of his ass but desperate times and all.  “Can I at least ask what happened with you and—”

“No.”

Somehow, for the rest of the day, Scott manages to keep the rest of the pack just outside of arm’s reach.  Stiles should remember to hug him if he makes it out of this day alive, really.  By the time their last class rolls around, he’s shaking and his stomach is all tied up in knots and this is ridiculous because there’s this little speech forming in the back of his mind and he cannot believe it is a thing but he wonders if maybe, just maybe it’s cheesy enough to work.  Or, you know, make Derek pity him enough to kill him quickly and really he always knew that it was gonna be a werewolf that was gonna do him in and—

“Stiles, dude, you need to breathe,” Scott reminds him once they reach his Jeep.

“I’m breathing, who isn’t breathing?  I’m like totally calm over here, if I were a body of water my surface would be so smooth  and unrippled you’d think you were looking at a mirror,” he gasps as his friend rubs his shoulder.  “If he kills me, you gotta take care of my dad but you also gotta tell him that this is all his fault for telling me that I gotta do this and I can’t just ignore my problems I am so in favor of ignoring problems until they go away you know that…”  After a while he’s pretty sure he stops saying real words.

Scott helps him into the Jeep, promising to take care of the sheriff and simultaneously assuring Stiles that he’s not going to die today.  And then suddenly Stiles is driving and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel and he could just go home but they know he lives there and he could try running away and changing his name but what good would that do?  It’s not his name that would need changing:  it’d be his biochemistry, his scent, his very Stiles-ness.

It seems to take far too little time to get to the Hale House.  He’s not sure why he thinks Derek will be there but he feels like he’d be there which makes no fucking sense and it’s just proof that he’s fucking lost it but as soon as he pulls up he sees him and dear _God_ why is he naked?  (Okay, Derek is not _naked_ he’s just… not wearing a shirt and _sweating_ and his jeans are riding really low and Stiles has no idea what he’s doing with that hammer but it should be illegal to look that good.)  By the time Stiles convinces his body to get out of the Jeep, Derek’s on the porch and the teen has this ridiculous thought that the Alpha should really have a glass of iced tea.

He starts talking before he even steps away from the vehicle.  “I had this vague idea that like, if I started with something, ‘In vain I have struggled, it will not do.  You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and l—’well, I mean probably not _love_ that would be a bit of a leap just now but I thought if I started with something like that then maybe you’d laugh instead of killing me for being a weirdo and a spazz because I mean you can’t kill me for temporary insanity and like quoting Darcy’s _gotta_ be indicative of insanity, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all--your comments and general loveliness is really helping me not shoot myself in the face because I cannot tell you how almost ashamed i am of this fic. I meant what I said when I said this was only supposed to be two chapters long but it really got away from me and I _promise_ kisses in the next chapter I can't maneuver around it anymore I'm so sorry ugh!  
>  Secondly, please don't judge Stiles too harshly for the bit about blackmailing Scott. I'd like you all to think of Lydia Martin and how fuckin' FIERCE this HBIC is and then tell me you wouldn't be terrified of her.  
> Yeah.  
> Thasswhaddithought.


	6. It's All A Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or the one in which they finally kiss and I fulfill a comment request.

“Stiles,” Derek says, gentler than he’s ever heard him.

Well, it would be gentler than he’d ever heard him if he were actually _listening._   “But the more I thought about that plan the more it seemed to crumble because that’s _ridiculous_ I mean _really_ because Darcy is… everyone wants to be Darcy but it made me feel weird but I couldn’t think of anything else by Austen that was relevant even though I’m _sure_ there is because, I mean, c’mon, lady practically wrote the book on this stuff—ha, get it? _wrote the book?_ —anway I just couldn’t concentrate and then like everyone left me all these voicemails and I didn’t listen to them but I thought _they_ were all gonna kill me so I had to blackmail Scott to keep them away from me because I just _know_ Lydia planned something because she’s _terrifying_ like that and I am going to best-friend-Hell because of this and all because, hey, guess what, I’m a _moron_ , Lydia was right—”

“—Stiles—”

“—and like the thing is, all I really wanted was to be a good friend in the first place and this whole thing sort of blew up in my face in a very Seamus-Finnegan-sort-of-way.  And the hell of it is that you look like _that_ and that, I am pretty sure, should be prohibited by the Geneva Convention because dear _God_ man are you aware of what you look like?  Or do you do this just to torture people like me because I’ll have you know that it’s in no way right to mess with my fragile hormone-addled brain with your _ridiculous_ abs and—”

Derek covers his mouth, which is probably for the best because he was getting a little shrill.  Which, yanno, isn’t manly _at all_ and it’s even worse that he can _still hear himself making noise_ like he’s talking but eventually he runs out of steam and he’s able to see past his own nose and Derek is _right there_.  Stiles takes a deep, shaky breath and just inhales all this _Derek_ smell and it smells like sweat and work and whatever it is he wants to lick it which is really the worst kind of direction for his mind to be taking right now because he already fucked up once he didn’t need to make it a thing.  “I’m going to keep my hand here for a little while longer until you calm down, okay?” Derek rumbles.  Stiles nods vehemently.  “And while I’ve got you _quiet_ I’m going to go ahead and tell you that Lydia was just going to bring you here.”  There’s another long pause and the werewolf almost looks pained as he collects his thoughts.  “I would also like to point out that, if you had just _stayed_ the other night, you could have saved yourself _a lot_ of stress.”

Stiles’ eyes go wide, for a moment because he really desperately _doesn’t get it_ and then further because he absolutely _does_ a moment before Derek’s warm lips are on his forehead (and his hand still firmly rests on his mouth which he thinks is _just unfair_ ).  He speaks softly against Stiles’ forehead, “I’m moving my hand now.”  And he does, and by some miracle there’s silence—well, there’s no speaking, but Stiles’ breath is loud and then Derek’s lips are on his and it doesn’t matter how chaste it is it’s _good_ and he hears himself whimper which should be embarrassing but he’s too busy pushing back with bruising enthusiasm and he’s never done this before and he’s sure he’s really _bad_ but somehow Derek’s patient and opens him up slowly and he feels hot all over and he feels like he’s never been touching someone in so many places at once and it’s kind of overwhelming but in the good way because it’s _Derek_ pressing him back against the Jeep, licking and biting and sucking his lips, teasing his tongue and exploring his mouth and—

And then he’s _cold_ because Derek pulls back and growls.  He’s not really threatening, it’s a different growl, and after making his aversion to this new non-kissing development all too clear, Stiles turns his attention in the direction at which the werewolf is glaring.  Lydia, Scott, and Isaac emerge from behind a tree.  Lydia, of course, doesn’t look intimidated at all.  She’s always been fearless like that.  She looks smug and Stiles might be upset about that if Derek weren’t so close to him and _God_ is this how Scott feels all the time about Allison because if he’s going to be that insufferable he’s going to end his own suffering _right now_ or probably after more kissing.  Isaac looks like he’s not sure whether he should be pleased or scared for his life.  Scott looks at them both apprehensively as if both Stiles and Derek will pounce on him at any moment.  (Which is strange because surely he’s heard that the only person either of them want to pounce on right now is each other.)

It should really be more of an issue with Stiles that it isn’t an issue at all that Derek starts nuzzling his throat right in front of those three but he’s beginning to think that he really likes the way that the older man’s stubble rubs against his sensitive flesh.  And, really, in his defense, the feeling is _really_ distracting and he could lose himself in it—and he may or may not be whining in a totally manly, sexy way.  He hears, but doesn’t turn because there’s this thing happening to his pulse point involving teeth, Lydia growl, “Oh, get a _room._ ”  They make quite the noisy show of running off, scampering back into the forest.  Like pups.

It feels like a long time before Stiles can make a noise other than little gasping whimpers but finally Derek pulls back and higher cognitive functions return—slowly—and he manages, “Room sounds good.”

“Your room?” Derek huffs against his lips before kissing him quickly.

“I’ll drive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next part is just an epilogue. Y'all don't have to read it. I just need it there.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who stuck around and people who left comments and were in general great.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it.
> 
> This is the sappy ending.

That first night, they didn’t have sex.  There were a lot of near-misses, lots of nights when waiting two months seemed _ridiculous_ and _stupid_ and lots of things are like that when you’ve got a furious hard-on between your legs.  But _it was only two months_ until Stiles was eighteen and Derek thought that that was important and, by God, he will always be doing stuff that that guy found important.  (Stiles knew that it was more than a Kate-thing, knew that deep down it was a give-them-time-to-adjust-thing, a one-of-them-is-still-broken-and-the-other-hasn’t-done-this-before-thing, and a goddammit-Stilinski-your-father-would-arrest-me-again-thing.  It was a lot of things, a lot of really important things, all bundled into one, and sometimes it pissed him off but most of the time it had given him the warm-and-fuzzies because his boyfriend was brilliant and at least when they finally _did_ do it it was going to be amazing if nothing else.)  They learned about one another, they talked and cuddled and watched stupid movies.  Stiles got Derek into Doctor Who and Derek in turn revealed his secret love of Indiana Jones—and threatened his life if he told anyone about it—and they watched Sherlock together and Derek might have cried during Reichenbach.  They kept rebuilding the Hale House and having pack bonding nights but now instead of being pack researcher Stiles was also kind of pack mom and Derek softened a little over time and Peter and Stiles even managed not to want to kill one another.  The Sheriff hesitated at first but Stiles eventually managed to convince him that, no, he and Derek were not having flagrantly illegal sex under his roof or _any_ roof and Derek in turn somehow managed to convince him that he was actually a pretty decent guy (Stiles’ dad would later—much later—tell his son that he came around because of the way Derek looked at Stiles when he wasn’t paying attention, when he wasn’t making an effort and just being the spastic goofball he was).

Losing his virginity involved a lot more laughing than Stiles had previously anticipated and maybe it was because he _was_ a teenage boy and he did watch so much porn but it had always struck him as a very serious affair.  (It was lucky for him that Derek was beginning to learn to laugh at himself by Stiles’ eighteenth birthday because having just the younger man laughing _would_ have put a damper on things.)  But they had grown comfortable enough that it wasn’t about impressing the other with moves—though, for the record, Derek _never_ failed to impress Stiles, dear _God_ —it was about moving together and feeling and being part of something beautiful (and messy and hilarious and lovely).  It wouldn’t always be like that, of course, but that first time—and the few times after that especially—required a bit of a sense of humor.  There would be brutal times and passionate times, emotional, long, quick, satisfying and unsatisfying, like any other relationship.

And they would both still be occasionally stupid and one of the pack would swoop in and knock their heads together and tell them how monumentally moronic they were and it would be a reminder that they all need each other.  (Stiles will make Austen jokes and Derek will give him that private smile every time, no matter how old they get.)  There will still be monsters and hunters, people who want to break up the pack and people who want them destroyed, things out to get them and things that just happen to cross paths with them at the wrong time.  (But here’s the real kicker:  Even with all that, Stiles will say to the very end that he got his happy ending.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, God, that was... like, so gooey.
> 
> I'm a little grossed out by it.
> 
> Y'all let me know if there's anything I can write for you but for right now I've been a good 53 hours without sleep and my whole body is killing me and I'm bed.


End file.
